Light the Way and Let Me Go
by sailormade
Summary: Sonny rolled onto his side, coughing, dry heaving, sucking in as much oxygen as he possibly could, and saw what he'd been seeing in his nightmares ever since Clay had been taken; Clay, thrashing around in a pool of his own blood like a wounded, rabid animal. Dying.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** I know I have other stuff to update, but writer's block is killing me right now and this plot bunny just. . . jumped outta' nowhere. So. Enjoy this while I try to muster an update for my other two, lol. As always, I love u babes.

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**1\. FILTHY FUCKING HANDS.**

Sonny couldn't believe his eyes. This was a trap. It had to be.

That, or the ungodly heat and his desperation to find Clay were making him hallucinate.

Petty Officer Clay Spenser—missing in action for almost four months, presumed dead by many (including Brock and Ray)—was calmly browsing a fruit stand in the middle of a local bazaar. Of all the places to find Clay, after all the time that had crawled by since he'd been violently torn from Sonny's hands. . . a fucking fruit stand. Sonny watched, mesmerized, his eyes growing damp, as Clay lifted a small bunch of bananas and inspected them.

A stupid, pointless little factoid came to the forefront of Sonny's mind, something dangerously close to a memory; Clay had always been picky about bananas. If they were too brown, or too soft, he wouldn't touch them.

Watching Clay nitpick over bananas now, in the middle of Nowhere, Pakistan, nearly drove Sonny to tears.

"Jay?" Sonny said into the mic attached to his helmet—his COMMs. "I got him. I found Clay."

There was a beat of silence, and then Jason's voice came through the static. "Come again, Bravo Three?"

Jason sounded as gobsmacked as Sonny felt. Sonny didn't blame him.

"Clay. I found him. He's at the bazaar, next to the fruit stand," He paused only long enough to take a breath. Steady himself. "But somethin' doesn't feel right. I got the heebie jeebies, man. There's no one with him. It looks like a trap."

"Think they're using him as bait to lure us out?"

"I'd bet my life on it." Sonny said, and he meant every word.

He'd assumed that Clay was being used as live bait to draw the rest of Bravo Team out of their cover the second it became apparent that Clay wasn't a hallucination. There was no way in Hell that Clay's captors would let a Tier One Operator, especially a young, healthy American like Clay, roam the streets unsupervised. Sonny didn't know too much about sex trafficking, thank God, but he knew enough to know the price tag on Clay's head was a hefty one.

"Hang tight, Sonny," Jason said. "Keep an eye on him. He look hurt?"

"No, not at all," Sonny replied, and though the relief was almost too much to bear, his uneasy gut told him that something was still very, very off about Clay. "He looks real good, Jay. He's dressed like the locals, wearing orange. They shaved his beard. Slicked his hair back. But otherwise. . ."

Sonny's voice cracked over his next few words, "He looks real damn good," and he didn't give a single shit.

There wasn't any response; Sonny figured that Jason was already brainstorming with Ray and Brock. While he waited, Sonny watched Clay.

Clay had moved on to a different stand. Books. He brushed his fingers over their dusty spines, leafed through the pages of the ones that he picked up. How many times had Sonny teased Clay for always having a book nearby? For spending his free time studying languages he would likely never speak? He spoke seven, now. And how many times had Sonny teased Clay for being so engrossed by Call Me By Your Name that he finished it in less than a week?

(_"I like bittersweet stories, okay? None of that happily ever after bullshit," Clay said in self-defense when Sonny snatched book from his hands. "Hey! Don't lose my place, asswipe!"_)

Christ. How often did Sonny take Clay Spenser's presence in his life for granted?

Everyday. That's how often.

Clay looked away from the book stand when an older woman, clothed in deep blue, walked by with two young children. He smiled and waved at them. They waved back. A little boy, no older than seven, ran to Clay and gave his leg a quick hug before running back to his amused mother. Clay ruffled his hair.

Something twisted sharply in Sonny's gut. Something was very, very wrong. Clay was a prisoner of war. Why was he friendly with the locals? How long had he been here, right under Bravo Team's nose?

Finally, Jason's voice came back on the COMMs.

"Sonny?" He asked.

"I'm here, boss." Sonny said.

Jason sighed, and by that sound alone Sonny knew exactly what Jason was going to say. "Alright, here's the plan; We're walkin' into the trap. It's the only way we're leaving here with our boy. Go ahead and make your way over to Clay, tell him it's time to go home. Trent is already on overwatch, and I'm sending Ray to the rooftop directly in front of your location. They'll cover you. Me and Brock are making our way to your position."

Sonny wiped at the wetness in his eyes._ Tell Clay it's time to go home._ He could do that. He was more than happy to do that.

"You got it, boss."

Sonny was dressed exactly like Clay, in traditional Pakistani shalwar kameez. As long as he didn't speak, and give away his thick American drawl, he'd blend in as well as Clay. He kept his eyes peeled, watching for anyone suspicious. Someone, somewhere, had to be keeping a close eye on Clay. . .

Sonny knew that there was a very good possibly a bullet would strike him any second. He knew, and he didn't care. Clay was worth it.

Sonny waited until the book stand's merchant walked away to approach Clay. He took a deep breath in a somewhat futile attempt to steady himself further. There would be time for happy tears on the C-17. Not now. Not when Clay was still just out of reach.

"Clay?" Sonny asked.

Clay looked at him, and something loosened in Sonny's chest. There wasn't a single bruise or scratch on Clay's face. He looked healthy and whole, and not at all like he did in Sonny's nightmares. Hell, it even looked like Clay had put on a few pounds. It was too good to be true. Clay was okay. He was better than okay.

Clay offered Sonny a polite smile, clearly forced, and muttered something in a language that Sonny couldn't understand. Then, Clay turned and began to walk away.

What had just loosened in Sonny's chest tightened again, stronger and much more painful. He wasn't sure what he'd been expecting, an overenthusiastic hug, maybe, but certainly not. . . that. Not a cold smile and blatant rejection.

It was too good to be true.

"Hey, Clay!" Sonny tried again. "Where you goin', buddy? It's time to go home. We've got you. You're safe now. We haven't stopped looking since they took you."

He doesn't say _I'm sorry, this is all my damn fault,_ but it's there on the tip of his tongue, laying in wait.

Sonny grabbed Clay's arm, and Clay jerked it out of his grip so violently that Sonny stumbled.

_"Home,"_ Clay hissed. "I am home. This is my home. Go back to yours and leave me the hell alone."

For a moment, Sonny stopped breathing. It felt as though someone had sucker-punched him in the gut. The world tilted on its axis, leaving Sonny disoriented and deeply confused.

"Nobody took me," Clay continued. "I went willingly. With my family. They love me, and I love them. I'm home. Don't worry about me. Just go. Please."

Holy shit. They'd brainwashed him. They'd fucking brainwashed him. Months of silence, of imagining Clay being tied down, carved into pieces for internet trolls, touched in nauseating ways that left Sonny dry heaving, hanging from a noose in some dusty town square. . . And when Sonny finally, finally found Clay, healthy and whole, Clay walked away from him.

Sonny knew that the rejection was a product of Clay's abduction and the extreme abuse he'd endured, but it felt personal—stung—anyway.

Unsure of what else to do, Sonny let Clay wander off and trailed behind him, just out of his sight.

"Boss?" Sonny asked through the COMMs. "We got a problem."

Jason responded immediately. "We got company?"

"No, it's Clay. He won't come with me."

"Say again, Bravo Three?"

"They brainwashed him, Jay. Says he already home."

Sonny couldn't bring himself to repeat the rest of Clay's words, despite knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt that they weren't true._ Nobody took me. I went willingly. They love me. I love them._ And, Christ, how fucking heartbreaking was it that it took brainwashing by sex-traffickers to pry the word "love" out of Clay's mouth?

Sonny could hear Clay's voice echoing in his mind, _"I like bittersweet stories. . ."_

"Plan B it is, then." Jason said, and Sonny felt sick to his stomach.

They'd talked about this. Lieutenant Commander Blackburn and Mandy Ellis had warned Bravo Team that, after months of captivity, Clay may have developed a particularity severe case of Stockholm Syndrome. If they found him, and he was resistant to rescue, he would be treated as an HVT.

Sonny was disgusted by the idea, and he'd told everyone that would listen that he refused to be the one to stick the black hood over Clay's head like he were a damn tango. Clay wasn't a war criminal. He'd done nothing wrong. He was traumatized. And Sonny said as much.

"Exactly," Blackburn had said. "He's traumatized, Sonny. That makes him dangerous."

The dampness in Sonny's eyes threatened to grow. He aggressively wiped away what little was there.

"You still got eyes on him, Bravo Three?" Jason asked.

Sonny glanced around and, shit—No, not again. Clay was gone.

"No," Sonny said. "Shit, no. He's gone. I lost him. Again."

"Keep it together, Sonny," Jason said. "It's okay. We know he's in the area, and he probably isn't going anywhere anytime soon. We'll head back to base and come up with a game plan. We're gonna' get him. We're not leaving this godforsaken dust-bowl without him."

"Roger that, boss." Sonny said.

With a heavy heart, he turned and left the bazaar, walking deeper into the little town that was hosting it on his way to Bravo Team's rendezvous point, located on the outskirts of town.

Sonny never made it.

Someone unseen grabbed the collar of his shirt and pulled him into the alley that he was passing by, quick as a cobra strike and just as lethal. One minute, Sonny was walking, half lost in own guilty conscience, and the next he was being thrown to the ground. He hit the hard-packed dirt with a dull thud and cried out in both pain and surprise, then someone was on top of him—someone was wrapping their hands around his throat and choking him, driving their thumbs deep into his windpipe and throttling the life from him.

It was Clay. That someone was Clay. Sonny could see his face as clear as day; His eyes were wide and blue and wild, full of a rage that Sonny had never seen in him before.

Sonny couldn't breathe, and not just because of the betrayal. Clay was much stronger than he looked, and he looked damn strong as it was. Sonny clawed at Clay's face, grabbed at his wrists, his hands, tried to roll them over. . . Anything to shake Clay off, but Clay held tight. Sonny's vision dimmed around the edges. He could feel himself getting light-headed from oxygen deprivation.

He could feel himself fading.

Jesus. Is this how Sonny was going to go out? At the hands of his own brother?_ Like Cain and Able._ The only weapons that Sonny had on him were his gun, and his knife, and he refused to use either on Clay. If he could find a blunt instrument, a pipe or something, to hit Clay with. . . Well, that'd be different. Clay would forgive him for a hard knock on the head, circumstances considered. But Sonny wouldn't stab Clay. Or shoot him. He couldn't, even if a small part of him had wanted to. He'd die first. And die he might. . .

Trent beat him to it.

Clay was on top of him, choking the life from him, and then. . . He wasn't. A millisecond later, Sonny heard the gunshot split the arid air. Panic squeezed his heart, much like Clay's hands had squeezed his damn windpipe. It nearly paralyzed him where he lay.

Sonny rolled onto his side, coughing, dry heaving, sucking in as much oxygen as he possibly could, and saw what he'd been seeing in his nightmares ever since Clay had been taken; Clay, thrashing around in a pool of his own blood like a wounded, rabid animal. Dying.

The bullet pierced Clay through the shoulder. Sonny crawled to his side, vision still dark around the edges, and tried to staunch the heavy bleeding.

"Hey, hey," He said, softly. "It's okay, Clay, I gotcha'. I'm here. Bravo's comin'. We're goin' home."

Clay fought hard against him, kicked and punched and clawed and screamed, "Don't touch me! Don't put your filthy fucking hands on me!"

With tears dripping down his cheeks now, Sonny scooted away from Clay; If Clay didn't stop thrashing and fighting, he'd expedite the bleeding and die right there, less than five feet away from Sonny.

"Man down," Sonny said in his COMMs. "Bravo Six is down. Took a bullet to the shoulder. He's bleedin' bad. Get here quick, boys."

Sonny sat back on his ass and drew his gun. Anyone who so much as glanced down the alleyway would get a bullet between their eyes.

He glanced at Clay, his brother in all but blood, the loud-mouthed little pain in his ass that he loved more than anything in this world, and watched him bleed, and bleed, and bleed. Clay stared up at the sky, eyes squeezed shut as he heaved in shallow breaths. He was shivering, panting like a dying white-tail who'd taken an arrow through the chest, and Sonny couldn't do jack-shit to help him.

Sonny wondered, distantly, as Master Chief Jason Hayes, along with Brock, came running through the alley to their aid, if he would ever be able to forgive Trent. He doubted that he could.


	2. Chapter 2

**TRIGGER WARNING**. While there aren't any graphic depictions/flashbacks of sexual assault/rape (and there won't be, as it absolutely isn't necessary), there are very blunt mentions in this chapter. There is also a single, brief mention of suicidal idealization, and a heaping ton of emotional manipulation toward the end.

This is why we have SERE, kids.

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**2\. BEFORE AND AFTER.**

The inside of the C-17 was too loud. The dull roar of the engine grated on Clay's frayed nerves, as did everything else; There was too much chatter. Too much miscellaneous noise. Someone, somewhere aboard, was snoring.

Clay yearned for the quiet. He feared it, too.

Bravo Team kept casting pitiful glances his way, as though he were a caged animal on its way to be euthanized. And, hell, maybe he was. . . _Wounded. Feral. Dangerous._ Is that what he was through the eyes of Bravo Team?

Clay certainly felt like an animal, some sort of old, hysterical world-wary predator. A coyote, perhaps. He was about fifteen seconds away from gnawing his own damn arm off. A small team of corpsman had him strapped to a gurney, and he struggled to shift so much as an inch. Clay knew, deep in his gut, that he wasn't escaping the C-17 with all of his limbs in tact. He wasn't going to see Pakistan again anytime soon, either.

It was ironic, Clay mused, that he could remember the name of the plane._ The C-17._ He'd forgotten so much else.

Clay thought of his life in terms of Before Karim and Mina, and After Karim and Mina. The memories from Before were dreamlike and nonlinear, distant and soft around the edges. . . Clay couldn't tell whether his memories were dreams, or if his dreams were memories, or if the connection that he felt to the burly, armor - clad men of Bravo Team was imagined or genuine.

More than anything, he wanted to go back to his little house in Pakistan with the blue doors and the tall fence. He wanted Karim and Mina.

Clay's memories of After were vivid and as clear as well water, as were the behaviors that were expected of him. Clay missed that sharp clarity; Now, trapped on a plane that he had no desire to be on with men and women he had no desire to speak to, it felt as though Clay were walking through a dream. . . or one of his memories. The C-17. The sailors of the United States Navy. Bravo Team. These were things and people from Before.

Clay didn't know what was expected of him on the C-17. Nor did he know the rules. Clay didn't dare breathe a word from his gurney, fearful that Jason may strike him if he missteps.

Master Chief Jason Hayes. He was the boss, the leader of Bravo Team. Clay remembered that much, at least. And even if he didn't, Jason's presence commanded the entire room—He was much bigger than Karim. Stronger. Fitter. Undoubtedly faster. He could do much more damage.

_Keep an eye on that one,_ Clay thought to himself. _Keep him happy, no matter what._

In the beginning of After, Clay had been beaten relentlessly. His ribs were broken so many times, for so many reasons, that he feared they'd eventually puncture one of his lungs. Or heal incorrectly, subsequently crippling him.

But the isolation that followed was far, far worse. And the relentless, gnawing hunger. Clay stayed locked in the darkness of Karim's basement for forty six days. Every two or three, Mina would feed him, and only enough to keep him alive. It didn't take Clay long to became ravenous—for food, for light, for socialization of any sort, for anything at all that wasn't silence and darkness and cold. Jesus fucking Christ, how many innocent men would he have killed to spend sixty seconds in a lukewarm shower? He smelled so badly that he made himself sick.

After the first two weeks without human contact, Clay began to hallucinate. It was Stella that he saw first, dressed in his favorite little white sundress. She smelt of warm vanilla sugar and her favorite Starbucks coffee order and Clay ached to see her smile just once more. He saw Brian, next, wearing the Navy dress-whites that he wore in his second wedding. Clay could hear him laughing still, the sound an epithet to the sun, and he could feel Brian's arm threaded through his own as he walked him down the isle.

And then Clay saw his father, Ash.

His father was quiet and devoid of warmth, just as he'd always been. He stood in front of Clay, glowing faintly in the darkness. He stared, and stared, and stared some more. He held the book that he wrote tight to his chest, tighter than he'd ever held Clay.

Clay screamed at him:_ I hate you! I hate you, you dirty, glory-hounding bastard! I was a child, and you threw me away like trash! I hate you!_

Clay tried to punch him in the jaw. His fist collided with the concrete wall. He fractured two fingers.

But then, out of the blue, and for no reason that Clay could discern, Karim and his wife, Mina, began to feed him. They brought him out of the light-less, empty basement and showed him to his bedroom; a bright, warm, sunlight room upstairs with a real bed, and a real bookshelf lined with a plethora of books, and an expensive looking rug and two intricate lamps and—

Clay wept. He could see the sky through his open window. And he could hear birds. And cars. And people. He could feel the sun. He couldn't stop weeping.

The beatings stopped, too, in a sense. They'd transformed into something softer, though just as painful. A soft caress of the face, fingers laced through his hair, a soft kiss to the blade of his jaw. It'd been nauseating at first, the unwelcome touches, especially when those touches drifted lower and lower—but Clay grit his teeth and bore them as though they were punches, kicks, and whips.

It was easier to think of them like that, as opposed to anything else.

Clay couldn't go back to the beatings, to the broken ribs and fractured hand bones and aching, dislocated jaw, to the welts and cuts and hunger. He doubted that his mind could handle another month or so in isolation. If Karim tossed him back into the basement, he'd bash his head against the wall until it killed him—Perhaps Brian would walk him to Heaven the same way that Clay had walked him to the altar.

So, Clay bore it. He knew better than to fight. He peeled off his clothes and closed his eyes and lost himself in the memories of Before.

His friend. His best friend. The one with a strange accent that always made him laugh. What was his name?

Sonny. His name was Sonny.

Clay missed Sonny.

Clay wasn't sure what was worse; when Karim touched him, or Mina. Sonny wouldn't touch him. Sonny would've beat in the skull of anyone who tried to touch him. The first few nights, he'd wished Sonny were there to beat Karim's head in. And Mina's.

Sonny never came. No one did.

There was a woman from Before, a woman that Clay loved dearly, whose name he now couldn't remember. She'd recommended a book to him once when he mentioned that he liked to read whenever he caught a free minute. Clay couldn't remember the name of the book, but he remembered a single quote from within its pages: _Detach yourself. Treat it as a job._

Clean the house? A job. Do the shopping? A job. Help chop the carrots, peel the potatoes, tend to the children? All jobs. Get fucked by some sweaty, overweight guy—or his wife? A Job.

Work. It was all just tedious, menial work. And in return for the work that he did, Clay had been granted overwhelming kindness; He began to eat with Karim and Mina at mealtime, and he ate the same as they did. He was allowed to leave the house so long as the chores were all done, and so long as he returned by dusk. Clay had made friends in town, and even grew to enjoy some of the household chores. Mop the floor, tidy the kitchen, mend the fence in the backyard. . . They were things to do, a physical way to fill the hours when he wasn't out.

In time, Clay began to realize that Karim and Mina weren't the worst people in the world. They were much kinder than the traffickers who took him. They could even be funny, sometimes.

As long as Clay did what was asked of him, and what was expected of him, they coexisted perfectly fine. The sex wasn't so bad, either, once he got used to it. It was just another tedious, menial job to be done. Another necessary evil. _Detach yourself._ Clay would stare up at the ceiling and try not to listen to the rhythmic squeak of the bed, and he'd let his thoughts drift to the weather, and to what he might buy for dinner tomorrow night, and whether or not he should start a new book or finish that one he's in the middle of first. _Treat it as a job._

(He couldn't leave the house after dark, and though Karim and Mina were wealthy, they forbid television; At night, Clay read.)

Clay never thought that he'd miss them. His mind reeled. What did Jason Hayes and his men want? Why did they take him? Clay remembered Jason both hating him and accepting him as one of his own, a fellow brother. He remembered Jason attacking him, as well as ruffling his hair affectionately. Which was real?

Fuck. Clay's head throbbed in tandem with his gunshot wound. _Which memories were real?_

Sonny Quinn lingered a few feet away, looking troubled. Clay could see him in his peripheral vision, just to the left. He'd wandered off from the rest of Bravo Team, it seemed. A small part of Clay wanted to reach out and comfort him, though he wasn't sure why.

Sonny had been his friend once, right? From Before?

No. That couldn't be right. This man, this Sonny , tried to take him away from his family. Karim and Mina bought him, yes, but they took care of him. They loved him. If he followed the rules, he got to sleep in his own bed, in his own room. There was no more isolation, after the first month or so. And no more hunger. And the beatings had shrunk into two sharp hits whenever he misbehaved.

They were strict, yes, but they still loved him. Why would his friend want to take him away from his family? Clay never had a real family before. He'd never ate a table with people who loved him.

He missed Karim and Mina.

"Sonny?" Clay asked quietly.

He didn't particularly want to talk to him, but the bone deep fear of another stint in isolation drove him to speak.

Sonny was at his side immediately. The relief on his face, and the wetness in his red rimmed eyes, made Clay uneasy. He didn't trust Sonny. He couldn't.

"Yeah," Sonny said, dropping into the chair next to Clay's gurney. "I'm here, Goldilocks. You doin' okay? It's been a long flight, I know."

Hm. A loaded question. Clay didn't want to give Sonny any ammunition against him, nor did he want to leave the question hanging—It would be rude to do so, and Jason would probably punch him in the jaw for the disrespect.

"My shoulder hurts," He said. "Wanna' go home."

Sonny's mouth formed a tight line. He reached out to squeeze Clay's good shoulder, and Clay braced himself for the contact.

"You are home, Clay. Bravo's your home, okay? No matter how you're feelin', or what's bouncin' around in that thick noggin of yours, we're your family. And we're. . . real glad to have you back."

Clay grit his teeth and said nothing. Sonny was lying to him. He wished that Jason would hit him. Pain was grounding; Karim said that pain kept you in the present, and Mina said that there was no need for the past. Clay agreed. Live in the present. Stay grounded in it. Before was gone. Now, there was only After.

The next hour or so went by in a blur. The C-17 landed, and Clay was immediately taken to a hospital. A flurry of vaguely familiar faces greeted him, but he said very little. He had to conserve all the energy that he could, just in case. An opportunity to escape may present itself. . .

Upon arrival, Clay was told that he didn't need surgery (the bullet that pierced his shoulder was still in Pakistan, lodged in the ground), but still had to be admitted for treatment and further tests.

If someone were to ask, Clay would've told them that being shot by a sniper rifle hurt far less than being treated for the resulting gunshot wound.

"Do you have to?" Clay asked when a young, dark haired nurse informed him, gently, that she was going to cut his shirt off.

"Yeah," She said. "I'm sorry, sweetie. I've gotta clean that wound."

Clay nodded, used to the process of having his clothes removed, and quietly braced himself. The nurse, Carly, her name tag said, snipped the top of his shirt one, two, three times before he involuntarily twisted to the side and vomited on the floor. The pain wrought from agitating his wound caused him to vomit again.

On the other side of the bed, Jason and Sonny stood guard. Clay half-expected Sonny to be the one to rush forward, but it was Jason Hayes, instead.

Interesting.

"Hey, hey, it's okay, Spense'," Jason said.

He reached out to brush the sweat-damp hair from Clay's forehead. Clay flinched.

Jason had big hands, and Clay couldn't help but imagine them wrapped around his throat, or pinning him to the bed. The thoughts left him dizzy with fear. He wanted to scream.

His bad shoulder oozed blood.

"Don't touch him," Nurse Carly said sharply. "Please."

Jason removed his hand from Clay's forehead, and Clay sagged with relief.

Three other men stood outside his room. Clay could see them through the window. He recognized them, but their names were fuzzy. One had a dog, then one in the middle. . . His name was Ray, Clay could remember that much, and the tall one on the end, with the beard. . . Travis? Trent?

Trent sounded right. Familiar.

Clay wondered which one of them shot him. It couldn't have been Jason or Sonny, or the one with the dog, because they'd been in the alley with him right after he'd been shot.

So, Trent or Ray.

Clay made a decision. He was going to survive by any means necessary.

He looked at Jason Hayes and intentionally softened his gaze, played up his victimhood. Jason seemed as though he wanted to help, to offer comfort. He seemed desperate to. Clay could work with that. Quietly, he extended his arm toward Jason, offering a hand.

Clay forced his hand to tremble. He didn't cease the trembling until Jason took it.

Clay smiled at him around the taste of vomit, thanked him with big, wet blue eyes. Mina always said that he had the prettiest eyes.

_Keep an eye on that one. Keep him happy, no matter what. . . No matter what._

"Mr. Spenser?" Carly asked, and holy shit, Spenser. That was his last name. How long has it been since he'd heard his last name? "I'm going to give you something to help you relax, okay? When you wake up, you'll be all stitched up."

Clay nodded and squeezed Jason's hand when Carly began to insert an IV into his other arm. Jason squeezed back.

As he began to drift off into a drug-induced slumber, Clay struggled to contain his grin.

Checkmate, Hayes.

If Master Chief Jason Hayes and his men saw Clay as a predator, then fine; Clay Spenser would give them a fucking predator.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: **Sorry for the delay in updating; Not only am I training for both a Spartan Race & bootcamp (I've ran 25 miles this week, sob), & not only is my work schedule insane this month (aquatics, yay!), but I just broke up with my girlfriend (re: career choices) & haven't been in the best mood to write. But! I'm here with chapter three! Hope you guys enjoy. I love y'all bunches & bunches.

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**3\. IN THE JAWS OF A WOLF.**

The time was pushing three thirty in the morning; Jason hadn't left Clay's bedside in almost six hours. The rest of Bravo Team came to visit shortly after Clay fell asleep, followed by Eric Blackburn and Lisa Davis, though Jason chased them all off after only a few minutes, fearful that they'd wake Clay from the rest that he so desperately needed.

Trent, however, didn't need to be chased away. He'd stayed for a grand total of sixty four seconds; He told Clay that he was sorry, and that he'd done what he had to do to make sure that both him and Sonny got home breathing, and then he'd quietly left. As he turned to leave, Jason noticed that his cheeks were damp. Jason didn't acknowledge his tears, or his presence, though whether because he didn't want to embarrass Trent or because he was angry at him, Jason couldn't tell.

Trent shot Clay. Trent watched Clay through the scope of his rifle, aimed at his shoulder, and pulled the trigger. Trent put a bullet in his own brother. His own blood. A part of Jason was absolutely furious and wanted to hit Trent in the damn jaw, but the other part of Jason, the Navy SEAL part of him, understood why Trent pulled the trigger and, regardless of how angry he felt, that part of himself forgave Trent.

Because, at the end of the day, Clay was going to kill Sonny. Hell, if it weren't for Trent, he would have succeeded.

God, Clay. He almost reminded Jason of Mikey with how small he looked in that hospital bed. It was hard to believe that Clay hadn't reached thirty yet; He'd been shot, stabbed, survived a helicopter crash, been kidnapped and sold like cattle, raped.

Raped.

Jason wanted to be sick. He couldn't stop picturing it; Couldn't stop imaging Clay being forced to pose naked for a stock photograph, one with a price printed in the corner. How long did Clay fight his captors before he was sold? And after? How long until gave up hope of rescue? How many nights did Clay cry himself to sleep, drowning in the belief that was his life now? That death might very well be the only escape? Maybe Clay didn't cry at all. Maybe, at that point, he was too numb.

Jason would have liked to think that, if he were the one who'd been sold into sexual slavery, he'd be strong enough not to cry. But after months of captivity, of radio silence. . . He'd break. Jason knew that he'd break. He'd lose his goddamn mind. There were some things that SERE just couldn't prepare you for. And, furthermore, the loss of your brothers, your team, would hurt a hell of a lot more than whatever physical abuse you'd have to endure. . .

Or, so Jason thought. The fear that he saw in Clay's eyes when he touched his forehead turned his blood to ice.

He'd never seen that sort of fear in Clay's eyes before. It'd been primal and raw, undiluted. A sheepdog who knew he'd been caught in the jaws of a wolf.

Jason glanced down at his hands. He wished that he could see what Clay saw so that he knew how to better interact with him. Though, one thing was for sure: No Touching. Not unless Clay initiated it, as he had when he requested Jason's hand.

Lieutenant Commander Blackburn had made a comment about that, told Jason to be careful. It took all that Jason had to not tell Eric to go fuck himself. All Clay wanted was a little comfort, and Jason was more than happy to give that to him; Clay trusted Jason enough to let him touch him. Jason wasn't going to throw that trust back in Clay's face and accuse him of being manipulative.

Clay was scared, and in pain, and deeply, deeply traumatized. After everything that he'd been through? There was no shame in wanting a familiar hand to hold while his fucking gunshot wound was being stitched up.

Jason heard his voice, all of a sudden.

"Jace?" Clay asked, abruptly pulling Jason from his thoughts.

He glanced to the side and saw Clay half - awake, watching him. And, God, Jason almost wanted to smile. Clay looked, and almost sounded, like his old self. For a brief, beautiful minute, Jason could pretend that things were okay, and that the gunshot wound was the worst of Clay's worries.

"Yeah, I'm here, Spense'," Jason said, switching on the lamp that sat on the little table next to Clay's bedside; Light illuminated their corner of the room. "How you feelin'?"

Clay rubbed at his eyes. "Okay, I guess. Shoulder is sore as shit, but. . . I'll live."

Jason did smile then. "Yeah, you will, man."

Clay smiled back, though it faltered. "Listen, I'm. . . Did I really attack Sonny?"

Jason sighed. "Yeah, you did. But it's okay. Sonny's fine, and he'd not mad, and neither is anyone else. You've. . . been through a lot."

Clay nodded and glanced down at his hands. Jason's heart clenched. A long bout of silence stretched out between them, and Jason thought Clay may have fallen back to sleep.

"It's hard to tell what memories are real, and which aren't," Clay said, suddenly. "Everything is. . . really broken up. Like puzzle pieces. And none of them fit together."

Christ. Jason wasn't sure what to make of that. What could those fucking animals have done to Clay that would make him doubt his own memories? What could possibly scramble Clay's mind that badly?

"It's okay," Jason said, because it was. "We'll help you sort through it. We'll tell you what's real, and what isn't. We'll get you through this."

"I know you will," Clay said. "You don't look like a guy who gives up on anything."

Jason chuckled, soft and sad. "Yeah, well, neither do you, kid."

An expression that he couldn't quite gauge flickered across Clay's tired features.

"Hey, Jason, can I. . . tell you something?"

"Yeah. Anything."

"You make me feel safe. And I know that probably sounds. . . really fucking weird, but I remember you the best. I. . . It's been a long time since I've felt safe."

Jason bit the inside of his cheek to keep his lip from wobbling. His heart had long since shattered, and now sat in a pile of dust in the pit of his stomach. He swallowed thickly.

"It doesn't sound weird," Jason said. "You're Bravo Six, remember? You're family. We're here to keep you safe._ I'm here_ to keep you safe. I promise. No one will ever take you again. We'll make damn sure of that."

Clay smiled, open and soft and sleepy. With drooping eyelids, he reached for Jason's hand again. Jason let him take it, and if Clay turned on his side, tucked it under his cheek, and drifted back to sleep—

Well, Jason wasn't going to mention it. He meant what he said. _I'm here to keep you safe. I promise._

* * *

The next morning, Jason woke to the sound of Clay screaming. Frogman instincts kicked in; He was on his feet in an instant, wide awake and ready to beat whatever dared to lay a hand on one of his brothers into an early grave.

It took only half a minute for Jason to realize that there was nothing, and no one, to fight. Clay was having his first of many nightmares to come; He twisted and arched against the bedsheets, and when he wasn't wailing loud enough to wake the dead, he was whimpering. His face was wet with tears, and Jesus fucking Christ, Jason's chest had never felt tighter.

He sat down on the edge of the bed and grabbed Clay's shoulders, pinning him to the bed. If Clay didn't stop fighting, he'd rip his IV out and tear his stitches open—a few were bleeding through the gauze already.

"Hey, hey," Jason said, firm but gentle. "It's just a nightmare, Clay. Calm down. You're gonna' hurt yourself, buddy."

Clay's eyes flew open, and he froze like a deer caught in the headlights. The expression on his tear-stained face would haunt Jason until kingdom come; It was the same expression from yesterday, when Jason touched his forehead._ A sheepdog caught in the jaws of a wolf._ It took a fraction of a second too long for Jason to realize that he was the cause.

Jason jerked his hands away from Clay's shoulders as though he'd been burned and all but leapt off the bed. He moved back to his chair and hoped he hadn't done too much damage. Shit. Was he stupid? Why did he grab Clay like that?

"Clay? You okay?"

Clay didn't speak. He didn't move. He laid there, as quiet and still as death, and stared up at the ceiling.

"Spenser?"

Silence.

It started to become evident that Clay was having a flashback. Jason scooted his chair a little closer to Clay's bedside, and gently said, "Clay, I need you to breathe for me, bud. You're safe. You're at the hospital. I didn't— I didn't mean to touch you. I just didn't want to rip your IV out. You're safe."

Clay turned his head and looked at Jason. His expression was pleading and raw, vulnerable in a way that made Jason want to claw his own skin off.

It was then that the reality sunk in, that what happened to Clay wasn't just a bad nightmare, or a worst case scenario; It was real, and Clay was shattered from the inside out, possibly beyond repair.

"Clay?" He asked again. "It's Jason. You're okay."

Clay remained quiet and still for another few seconds, then slowly, slowly returned to what was left of himself. He crumbled like a statue; His body shook and his breathing grew heavy, his eyes were wide as saucers.

"I'm sorry," He said, so quiet that Jason almost couldn't hear. "I'll be better. I'll do better. I'm sorry. I didn't know. I'm sorry."

"Hey, Clay, no," Jason said. "It's—you're fine, okay? You didn't do anything wrong. I did, and I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I just didn't want you to hurt yourself."

Clay started to laugh hysterically, as though Jason's words were the funniest goddamn thing that he'd ever heard. Then, he puked on the floor again.

* * *

Jason took his time walking back to the waiting room where he knew the rest of Bravo Team would be waiting. They were too stubborn to go home for the night, and too loyal; Jason loved and hated them for that in equal measure.

In the end, he didn't make it to the waiting room. He took a sharp left and found himself down the stairs and to the right, in the little vending machine room. He dug around in his pockets for some spare change. He could use a couple of Snickers bars, at the very least.

What'd Alana always say? Oh, right, that Snickers were his comfort food. She'd teased him mercilessly, even after the divorce proceedings began.

Jason could use some comfort. His team was in tatters, and Alana was still buried six feet deep, and he still had to figure out how to pay for Emma's tuition. He would've given his life for another ten minutes with Alana, just to hear her laugh at his stupid jokes, just to hold her tight in the cage of his arms and kiss her forehead. He wanted to tell her he loved her one more time.

_'What do I do, baby?'_ He thought. _'How do I fix this mess?'_

Jason rubbed at his tired eyes, and only then did he notice the familiar figure standing in front of the machines.

"Trent?" He asked.

Trent Sawyer turned to look at him, and Jesus, Trent didn't even look like himself; His hair was greasy and thoroughly mussed, as though he couldn't keep his hands off of his head, and his eyes were distant and glassy and red rimmed—the darkness underneath them told a story deeper than exhaustion and fear. He looked about ten seconds away from collapse.

"Hey, Jay." Trent said.

Jason tried to smile. He wasn't sure if worked or not. "Gettin' some M&Ms?"

There were three packages of M&Ms in Trent's hands, one regular and two peanut. Something sharp twisted in Jason's gut. He knew what that much candy meant when it was in Trent's hands.

Trent sighed. "They're better than whiskey, I guess. And I really, really want some whiskey."

Jason's heart skipped a beat, terrified.

"Eight years," Jason said, quick as a bullet being fired. "You've been sober for eight years, Trent. Don't throw that away. Please."

"I shot him," Trent said. His voice cracked over the words. "I fucking shot him, Jason."

Jason sighed heavily. He hadn't had time to process Bravo Four putting a bullet in Bravo Six yet, and he wasn't sure what degree of pissed he was, but he wasn't letting Trent break eight years of sobriety over a questionable judgment call.

"He was going to kill Sonny," Jason countered. "In that moment, you did what you thought was right. It was a real shitty situation, and all our options were equally shitty. Don't beat yourself up over this. Clay's gonna' be fine. He won't even need surgery."

"I could've killed him."

"And he could've killed Sonny and ran back to the bastards who bought him. Did you hear me? He's going to be fine. He's home and he's alive, and that's because of you, Trent. This is the best outcome that we could've hoped for, no matter how we got here."

Trent ripped open his peanut M&Ms and dumped half of the bag in his mouth. While he chewed, Jason stuck a couple of dollars in the vending machine and pressed the battered, off-white 2C buttons; He needed his goddamn Snickers bar.

"Sonny won't talk to me." Trent admitted while Jason collected his candy from the machine.

Jason turned the Snickers bar over in his hands. It didn't seem all that appetizing anymore.

"Give him time," He said. "He'll come around. So will Clay."

Silence.

"Your wife needs you sober, Trent," Jason continued. "Those beautiful babies of yours need you sober too. God knows that they're hard enough to tell apart as it is. Bravo needs you sober. _I need you sober._ Don't do something that you can't take back. Eight years sober. Don't forget that."

Trent opened his second bag of M&Ms.

"I know," He said. "I know, it's—Shit, Jay. I shot him. After everything he's been through, I put a bullet in him."

"You saved him from himself," Jason said, and he meant it. "And you saved Sonny."

"Doesn't feel like it," Trent shot back.

"Like I said, Clay's gonna' be fine," Jason said. It felt strange to reassure Trent, of all people, considering that Trent was the one who was always saving their asses. "All you gave him was a flesh wound. He's stitched up. Now it's his mind we have to worry about."

"It's gonna be a long, hard road for him. That's for sure."

"Anything we can do?"

Trent sighed and leaned against the wall. "Listen to him. If he wants to talk about it, let him, no matter how uncomfortable it is. If he says no to anything, anything at all, accept it. Don't argue. The biggest thing for Clay, right now, is going to be re-learning how to say no, and how to make choices for himself. What happened to him. . . Saying no to anything at all could've very easily been a death sentence. He was probably told what to wear, what to eat, where to go, what to say . . . He has to learn that he's safe here, and that this is his home, and that he can say no, and that he can make his own choices. And under no circumstance should you say anything about his appearance."

Jason nodded.

"I know you don't want to hear it, Jason," Trent continued. "But Blackburn is right. Right now, you've gotta' keep an eye on Clay. He knows you're the one in charge, and he's going to do anything in his power to keep you happy. He attacked Sonny, so it's pretty clear that he doesn't think he's been rescued. He probably thinks he's been bought again."

Jason took a bite of his Snickers and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to will away the tears. Fearful that Trent would notice, he did what he did best; sharped his grief into anger, turned it into a weapon.

"So what should I do, then? Ignore him?" He snapped.

Trent narrowed his eyes. "No, Jason, you need to set boundaries. Very, very clear boundaries. Make absolutely sure that Clay knows you're not his owner, you're his friend. Make sure he knows that you don't want anything from him. He's been treated like property for months. That isn't going away overnight. It's impossible to understate how astronomical Clay's trust issues are."

Jason thought of his conversation with Clay last night; While he knew Trent was right, to some degree, he couldn't bring himself to believe that Clay was manipulating him. The Clay that he talked to last night. . . Jason knew that Clay. That Clay was a glimpse of the old Clay. The real Clay.

Their conversation wasn't meaningless. It wasn't smoke and mirrors. Jason refused to believe so. Clay had to know that Jason was there to keep him safe, and to help him recover. He had to. It wasn't as if Clay were gone for years, it had only been six months. . . He couldn't be as far-gone as Trent was alluding to, right? Trent wasn't a damn psychologist.

Aching to change the conversation, Jason exhaled deeply and said, "Do you want to go to Dairy Queen?"

Trent blinked at him. "What?"

"Dairy Queen. It's fifteen minutes down the road. I say we go to Dairy Queen, buy our kids some ice cream, and then come back this afternoon. Clay had to be sedated again, anyway. He'll be out for hours. And I think we could all use a little break. We know he's safe now."

Trent huffed. "Yeah, you know what? Let's do it, man. Let's go to fucking Dairy Queen."

Trent finished off his third packet of M&Ms, Jason shoved the rest of his Snickers bar in his mouth, and they left.

* * *

I don't love how this turned out, but I wanted to get it posted. Any mistakes are wholeheartedly my own. I gotta' keep reminding myself that this is a first draft, and it's okay if it's messy, but it's hard, lol.


	4. Chapter 4

**TRIGGER WARNING.** clay's deeply traumatized, heavily abused mind is a dark place; he misinterprets things, makes dark assumptions, & connects dots that aren't really there. very brief mentions of rape, as well; as always, nothing explicit.

this is when it gets real, babes.

* * *

**4\. ARE YOU PROUD OF ME?**

Forty Six Hours. That was how long he'd been separated from Karim and Mina. Forty Six Hours. Just a little over two days.

Clay's stomach was a mess of tight, anxious knots; Karim was going to be furious at him for letting himself be caught. He fought as hard as he could against the people from Before, his so-called brothers, but he'd been overpowered. Trent had shot him with a damn sniper rifle. Sonny had sat next to him while he bled out and stood guard. Bravo Team had worked together to steal him. They strapped him down, knocked him out with drugs. . .

But Karim wouldn't care.

_"Why'd you let yourself be captured, you little mongrel? I paid good money for you! And too much! You are not worth this trouble! It's a good thing you're so pretty and so good with that mouth."_ Karim would snarl.

Clay could hear his voice in his ear already, low and rough and furious. And too close. Always too close. He could smell the smoke on Karim's breath. He could almost feel the sharp sting of the warning punch that he'd take to the face.

"I come bearing gifts!" A boisterous voice called from the doorway.

Clay would know that thick Texan drawl anywhere. It belonged Sonny.

He braced himself for the interaction.

So far, Sonny had been nothing but friendly—_suspiciously so_. . . But Clay knew better than to let his guard down, to blindly accept the offered kindness. This man was not his friend. He helped Bravo Team steal him from Karim and Mina.

God, Clay was tired though. The amount of energy that it took to smile and play nice felt immeasurable. He just wanted to sleep.

Clay grit his teeth, plastered on a smile, and said, "Hey, Sonny."

Sonny's answering grin was blinding. It made bile rise in Clay's throat.

Mina used to smile at him like that. Bright. Genuine. Open. Like a child who'd found their favorite toy. She'd almost been cute, up until she slid her dainty fingers down his pants, up until she'd pushed him onto the lavish couch and rode him until tears stung his eyes.

_Detach yourself. Treat it as a job. Treat it as a job. Don't fucking cry about it. Just do it. Get it over with._

"I thought you might be gettin' sick of that hospital gown," Sonny began, setting a small bundle of clothes on the edge of the bed. "So I, ugh, dropped by your place and grabbed some sweatpants, a couple sweatshirts too. Hope that's okay. I figured you'd feel a little better if you felt less like a patient."

"Oh," Clay said, almost dumbly.

He stared at the little grey and navy blue bundle of clothes from Before. Clay knew that he should put the clothes on to keep Sonny happy—if Sonny were happy, he'd hopefully keep his hands to himself—but he couldn't move. He could hardly breathe.

Those clothes were from Before. They were forbidden. If Karim ever found out that he'd even considered wearing them. . .

"Thank you," Clay finished. "I—yeah, thank you."

Sonny dropped into the chair next to Clay's bedside. _Jason's chair,_ Clay thought with a hint of ire. He didn't like Sonny sitting in it.

Clay wondered, would Jason punish him for letting Sonny sit in his rightful place? Karim would've. Clay would've had his choice of fifteen lashes across the back with a belt or two days of hunger. Clay would choose what he always chose: the lashes.

_'I wonder if I have scars from Karim's belt.'_ Clay though distantly.

"How you feelin'?" Sonny asked.

Sonny seemed to like that question.

"Better," Clay lied smoothly. "A lot better. My head feels. . . clearer now, you know? Especially out of that damn desert heat."

Sonny chuckled and nodded; Clay could see that his eyes were glassy with emotion, but said nothing. "It's real good to hear you say that, little buddy. You gave us a real scare."

Clay glanced down at his hands, uncomfortable, and then back up at Sonny. "Did I do that to your neck?"

Sonny reached up to touch the livid bruising that encircled his throat like a necklace. The smile slipped from his face, and fear shot up Clay's spine like a bolt of lightning. It jarred him. He braced for a smack, a punch, a kiss with too much teeth. A punishment of any sort.

"You didn't mean it," Sonny replied, voice softening. He made no move to strike him. "Those bastards that had you? They messed your mind up pretty bad. I don't know. . . how much you remember, but they did a lot of. . . really evil things to you. You didn't know what you were doin' when you came after me, Clay. It's okay. I'm okay. We're okay. Okay?"

Something in Clay's chest grew tight, though he was unsure of why.

"Okay." He replied.

"Okay," Sonny said, and his frown lifted just enough to be called a smile. "Now, you hungry? Because I sent Brock and that damned dog out to get some burgers. He's bringin' you a couple back. And curly fries."

That didn't sound too bad. Burgers and curly didn't sound bad at all. They were food from Before, but God, he was hungry.

"Very," Clay said. "I think the last time I ate was, I don't know, two or three days, maybe? I. . . was in trouble before you found me. Wasn't gonna' be allowed to eat until tomorrow."

Like Jason, Sonny wanted to help him. That much was clear, at least. Clay could work with that angle with Sonny, too.

Sonny's expression was pained, just as Clay had predicted. "Clay—"

"It's fine," Clay said hurriedly; He'd drop tidbits of information, but he wasn't about to divulge anything further. "It's over now. I'm. . . home."

Home. The lie tasted bitter on his tongue, like burnt coffee. Home was back in Pakistan with Karim and Mina. Home was the house with the blue doors and tall fence. Home wasn't here with his captors and all their lies.

"Yeah," Sonny said. "You are. The doc says you'll be discharged tomorrow. I thought maybe. . . maybe you could stay with me for awhile? Doc also said you shouldn't be alone right now."

Oh. So that's what Sonny wanted—why he was bringing clothes and food as gifts, like Karim had. Clay tried not to let Sonny see him deflate.

"Yeah, man, that sounds great," Clay said, feigning excitement. His eyes stung with unshed tears. _Detach yourself. Don't fucking cry about it._ "Seriously, thanks. I—I know I'm a mess right now, so. . . Probably not the best company."

Sonny shook his head. "Doesn't matter. You're family. Me and the rest of Bravo will get you fixed up, brother. Don't worry about a thing."

_Don't worry about a thing._ Clay wanted to laugh, then spit in his face. He didn't have the luxury of dumping his worries onto someone else's lap. He didn't have anyone else's lap to dump his worries onto.

"Hey, Son', can you do me a favor?"

It felt risky to ask for anything, especially without anything to offer in return, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

"Yeah, anything." Sonny said. It sounded like he meant it.

Clay swallowed thickly. "Could you get Jason for me?"

Asking felt like signing his death certificate.

Something that Clay couldn't read flickered across Sonny's face. "Yeah, 'course. You need anything else, you just ask, you hear?"

Sonny stood, and fear caused Clay's heart to skip a beat. He seemed so tall.

"Yeah, yeah. I know. Thanks, Sonny."

Sonny offered him a warm smile. "I'll be back with your burgers when Brock gets here."

Clay nodded, and didn't exhale until Sonny was out of sight.

* * *

Jason came to visit a short while later. Half an hour, perhaps. His presence was a welcome one. Clay could still hear Jason's words from the previous night in his mind; _I'm here to keep you safe._

"Hey, Spense'," Jason said. "You ask for me?"

"Yeah," Clay said. "Sorry, I just—"

He closed his eyes and sighed, getting into character; preparing himself to play the big eyed, broken hearted victim. "It's been kind of a rough morning. You being here. . . I don't know, it makes it a little easier to breathe, I guess."

Jason sat in the chair that he'd quietly claimed as his own, and a warm little thrill shot through Clay. He was surprised by how much he liked pleasing Jason. Maybe he'd get back to Karim and Mina, after all. . .

_Just keep Jason happy._

"So, um, Sonny wants me to stay with him," Clay began. "Is—Can I do that?"

Jason nodded. "Yeah, of course. Do you want to?"

Clay nodded.

Jason smiled. "Well, there you go. You don't have to ask permission anymore. You can do what you want, Clay. You're home."

You can do what you want, Clay. That had to be a test. Jason had to be testing him, his loyalties . . . Maybe Clay was supposed to read between the lines.

Was he supposed to kill Sonny? Is that what Jason was implying? It'd make sense. Sonny would very likely have weapons at his place. Knives, at the very least. Clay might've botched strangling him to death, but he wouldn't botch a stabbing. He could kill Sonny and call Jason, tell him to come over and help dispose of the body. That would prove Clay's loyalty to Jason, right?_ I killed him for you, Jason. Did I do okay?_

Jason hadn't given him any rules yet, or expectations. He wasn't as strict and clear as Karim and Mina had been. Clay wished that Jason would tell him what to do. Or how to act, at least. Clay didn't know.

He'd never felt more lost.

"Okay," Clay said. He could play this game. "Well, in that case, I think I'd like to talk to Trent."

Jason's sighed. "He's at an A.A. meeting right now. I made him go first thing this morning. He. . . had a rough night too. But when he gets back, I know he'd like to talk to you too. Say he's sorry again. Make amends, and all that."

Clay shook his head. "No, man, he just—He did what he had to. I get that. No hard feelings."

"I think he needs to hear you say that. He's really torn up about pulling the trigger."

"I was out of my mind. I could've killed Sonny. He made the right call."

Trent won't be there next time. Clay will make damn sure of that. Next time, he'll wait until cover of night, and he'll corner Sonny the same way that Bravo Team cornered him, and when he goes for the throat—there won't be bruises, there'll be blood.

_Keep Jason happy, no matter what._

"That's what I told him, but you know how Trent gets." Jason said.

Clay offered him a lopsided grin. "You mean like you do?"

Jason chuckled. "Look at that, little Spenser's smartass mouth is back. You must really be on the mend."

Clay preened under the praise. Warmth flooded through his chest.

"I'd probably mend faster if you stole me a jello cup from the cafeteria."

Jason lifted a brow and groaned. "What color?"

"Orange, please."

Jason rolled his eyes good-naturedly and stood._ "One_ jello cup. I'll be back."

Clay met his eyes, made sure to hold them for a second too long, and then sank back into his pillows. He closed his eyes and imagined the proud look on Jason's face when he discovered Sonny's body.

_I killed him for you, Jason. Did I do okay?_

_Are you proud of me?_


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N:** long time, no update. life has been crazy, ya'll. this absolutely isn't my best work ... like, by a lot. but i really wanted to get this updated. so. enjoy, my loves.

* * *

**05\. WE WON'T TELL SONNY ABOUT THIS.**

It took two rounds of intravenous sedatives to calm Clay's nerves enough to get him into Sonny's truck, and twenty minutes worth of coaxing from Jason. Despite the partial sedation, Clay's eyes still darted rapidly from point to point to point; from the sky, to the crowded parking lot, to Jason, and skyward again. Jason knew that Clay's anxiety had to be through the roof. What was it that Trent said again? _It's impossible to understate how astronomical Clay's trust issues are. . ._

The ride to Sonny's apartment was quiet. And long, despite it only being fifteen minutes away.

Jason was riding bitch, smashed between Sonny and Clay with the goddamn gear-shift between his legs; He knew better than to put Clay in the middle where he'd feel trapped. Pinned in. Any other day, Jason would be complaining about being too damn tall for the middle, and about sore legs and Sonny's thigh pressed up against his.

But today, Jason was grateful for those little grievances. How lucky was he that stiff legs and a poorly placed gearshift were the only worries on the forefront of his mind? C_lay didn't get that luxury. Every time Jason's thigh would bump against Clay's, Clay would tense up and squeeze his eyes shut —_ freeze like a deer caught in the headlights.

Jason tried not to think about the reason why. He had no other choice than to hold it together. Clay needed him, and he'd already failed Clay enough as it was.

By the time Sonny pulled into the parking lot of his apartment building, Clay was half asleep, face pressed against the window. The nurse mentioned that the sedatives would likely keep him groggy until morning. They'd suppress his appetite too.

Jason hoped that Sonny's cooking would entice Clay to eat, even if it were just a few bites. From what Sonny had told him, Clay had been without food for almost three days.

Rage spiked through Jason — It wasn't enough to beat and violate him? They had to starve him too? — but ebbed away as quickly as it came. He filed the anger away from a later time, when he'd really need it; When he had boots on the ground and a gun in his hands and he was equip to send the animals who dared to put their hands on Bravo Six to the deepest bowels of Hell.

"Clay?" Jason asked. He was careful not to touch him. "Rise and shine, buddy. We're at Sonny's."

From beside him, Sonny added, "Up and at em', Spense. The sooner we get inside, the sooner I can get grillin'."

Clay grunted and blinked slowly at them, groggy from the meds that were keeping him calm; He nodded and opened the door with a heartbreaking amount of effort. Jason slid out behind him and followed him and Sonny inside.

Clay kept himself plastered to Jason's side. Trent's words kept coming back to haunt Jason, and while he disagreed with a hard few of them, Jason knew that he and Clay would have to have a talk about boundaries at some point, for no other reason then to reassure Clay that yes, he was safe now. He was back with his brothers.

His brothers. Nothing less. Nothing more.

"Welcome back to my humble abode!" Sonny said, flicking on the light switch; light flooded the surprisingly clean living room, and Clay squinted.

Jason tried not to think about why something as simple as light filling a dark room would hurt Clay's eyes. If felt like that was all Jason did since Clay's return; try not to think about the Hell that he'd endured. Jesus. What did they do to him? Keep him in the dark?

"And yours too, little buddy," Sonny continued. "For as long as you want."

Clay pressed closer into Jason's side. He felt so much smaller than a Tier One Operator ever should.

"Thank you," Clay said quietly.

"I'm gonna' hit the head, then put the meat on. Make yourselves at home. As per usual, ya' know."

Before Sonny walked off, Clay offered him a little smile.

Jason watched Clay's eyes dart around the apartment, likely looking for all the escape routes. It made Jason's chest tight. Once upon a time, Clay would've kicked his shoes off and thrown himself on the couch; He'd of sprawled out and helped himself to the remote.

Now? Clay was too afraid to take six steps.

"You wanna' sit down?" Jason asked.

Clay nodded, but stayed anchored in place until Jason walked to the couch. Clay didn't sit until Jason did, and when he did he pressed himself against Jason's side.

Trent came to mind again; _He's going to do anything in his power to keep you happy … Make absolutely sure that Clay knows you're not his owner, you're his friend. Make sure he knows that you don't want anything from him. He's been treated like property for months. That isn't going away overnight._

"I think I remember this place," Clay said, suddenly; Something like hope fluttered in Jason's chest.

"Yeah?" He asked.

"It's vague but … I remember this couch. The TV. The smell of meat cooking."

"Sonny loves to grill. Damn good at it, too. Think you could eat?"

Clay nodded. "I think, yeah. A little."

Jason could've cried. He blinked furiously. "Good, that's — really good."

Jason kicked his feet up on the coffee table and switched the television on. An easy quiet settled over the living room. Though Clay was still pressed tight to his side, he could feel him starting to relax into the couch. It was a little victory, but a victory nevertheless.

Ten minutes into the sound of Property Brothers and Sonny's horrendous singing from the kitchen, Clay spoke up.

"Jay?" He asked.

Jason glanced over at him. "Yeah, Spense?"

"Where am I sleeping tonight?"

The question felt like a sucker-punch to the gut. It was impossible not to read between the lines of what Clay was really asking. Boundaries, he thought. Very clear boundaries.

"In Sonny's guest room," Jason said carefully. "And while you're here, that's your room, and your bed, okay? Not mine. Not Sonny's. Yours. You don't have to — worry about anything. You're safe here. We're all. . . keeping our hands to ourselves."

An expression that Jason couldn't quite read flickered across Clay's face. He tried not to read too much into it.

Clay didn't say another word until Sonny called from the kitchen, "Burgers are done! Get em' while they're hot!"

Clay startled, panic flashing across his eyes. It would've taken a blind man to miss it the way his eyes widened. He sunk further back into the couch and drew his feet up underneath him.

"You want me to get your food?" Jason asked. "Or do you want to come with me?"

"What should I do?"

Jason's heart sunk. He has to relearn that he's safe here, that he can say no, how to make his own choices again. . .

"What do you want to do?"

That strange, unreadable expression returned to Clay's face.

"Ugh, can you get it?" Clay asked. "Please?"

Please. Had Clay ever said please before? Not that Jason could ever remember. It felt disconcerting to hear such a polite word leave his mouth.

"Sure thing, Spense." Jason said.

He got up and headed into the kitchen, reluctantly leaving Clay behind. He knew that Clay was perfectly safe on Sonny's couch, watching television, but something still twisted sharply in Jason's chest when Clay was out of sight. Seeing Sonny in his god-awful Texas-themed apron was worth a laugh, though.

"How's our boy settlin' in?" Sonny asked, moving the well-done hamburger patties to a plate.

Jason sighed. "Doing okay, I think. Said he could eat. I'm hoping he can get at least one burger down."

Sonny nodded.

"He asked me where he was sleeping tonight."

"I wanna' kill somebody, Jace," Sonny said. "I want to slit somebody's fucking throat. I don't care who."

Jason did too.

"I know, Sonny. I do too. But being angry isn't gonna' help Clay any. He'll come back to us. He's already starting to. He just … needs time. And some space, I think. He has his first therapy appointment on Thursday."

"Think it'll help?"

Jason shrugged. "I don't know, man. I don't put a whole lot of stock into the whole … talking about your feelings thing, but with what Clay went through … I think talking to someone who understands can't hurt. If there's a chance it'll help him heal, we gotta' encourage him to take it, no matter what we think."

Sonny turned to meet Jason's eyes. "I'm scared, Jace. For him."

"He's gonna' find his way back to us, Sonny. He just needs time."

Sonny blinked quickly; Jason could tell that he was fighting back tears. Hell, Jason had used that same trick earlier. Talking about Clay, and acknowledging the reality of what happened to him, felt like poking at a raw wound.

"Well," Sonny said, clearing his throat. "Can you grab the buns for me? They're in the bottom drawer."

Jason grabbed the bag of buns from the bottom drawer — sweet Hawaiian, Sonny's favorite — and set them on the counter. Jason grabbed a burger with less cheese for Clay, and picked off the onions. He didn't want Clay to make himself sick. The doctor said that he'd have to slowly be reintroduced to certain foods, and heavy, greasy foods were at the top of the list.

He put Clay's burger on a plate, added just enough ketchup and mayonnaise for taste.

"I'll be right back," He told Sonny. "I'm gonna' take this to Clay."

Sonny nodded. "Make sure he at least tries it. And tell him no, no pickles got anywhere near it!"

Clay did end up trying it. After the first couple of bites, Clay devoured the entire burger, and another two afterwards while Sonny told a seemingly never-ending story about something that happened at a dive-bar in Dallas. Clay ate until he made himself halfway nauseous, and then drank an unsettling amount of water.

It almost felt normal, during that time: The two of them listening to one of Sonny's many stories and eating and drinking cheap beer while the television played in the background. It felt relaxed and easy. Clay didn't talk much, but he did ask questions here and there, and when he laughed at Sonny's bad puns, well ... The laugh seemed genuine enough to Jason, and the grin on Sonny's face made it worth it.

God. It felt damn good to hear Clay laugh again.

A handful of hours pass, filled with quiet conversation and stories, but when Sonny made a joke about how loud Clay was snoring into Jason's shoulder, Jason decided it was time to head to bed. And by bed, he meant Sonny's couch . . . Not that Jason didn't have more then enough experience with sleeping on friends' couches. He shrugged his shoulder to wake Clay.

When Clay startled awake, it was in a panic. He jerked hard and glanced around the room quickly before seeming to remember his company. Clay relaxed some, then.

Jason chose his words very carefully. "Ready to sleep, Spense?"

Clay nodded and yawned.

"I'll show you to your room, okay? Unless you want Sonny to."

Clay glanced anxiously between Jason and Sonny.

"There's no wrong answer, bud," Sonny said. "You're safe here, remember? You want Jay to take you?"

Clay nodded.

Jason smiled. "Let's go then. Cause' I gotta' tell ya', I'm dead on my feet. I think we could all use a nice, long eight hours."

Sonny snorted. "Make mine twelve."

Jason stood and stretched. God, he felt like he'd been beaten with the metal end of a firehose. . . He led Clay down the hall and to Sonny's guestroom. It wasn't much, and definitely wasn't shown as much love as the rest of the house, but there was a queen sized bed and a television and an attached half-bathroom. A small stack of folded clothes, sweats and an old t-shirt, sat on the edge of the bed.

Clay eyed the bed suspiciously. Jason pretended not to notice.

"I think I — Can I shower before bed?" Clay asked.

Jason nodded. "If you want to, yes. Do you want me to wait for you to get out before I head to my bed slash couch?"

Clay chuckled and nodded.

Jason flopped down on the bed. "Then go for it, little Spenser. I'll get out of your hair when you're done, okay?"

Clay nodded again and, with another yawn, disappeared into the bathroom. When Jason heard the door click shut, he folded his arms across his chest and closed his eyes. He didn't mean to fall asleep. He'd only meant to rest his eyes while Clay showered. . .

But he must've fallen asleep, however briefly, because he found himself waking — and what he woke to was a nightmare.

The first thing that registered was hot, heavy weight across his midsection. Jason groaned and pried his eyes open and found — Jesus fucking Christ, ,and found Clay straddling his hips, completely naked. His hair was still damp from his shower, and his skin was flushed red.

"Mornin, sleepyhead," Clay leered. "You're cute when sleep. Anyone ever tell you that?"

"Jesus, Clay — the hell are you doing?!" Jason half-shouts.

"Making you feel good, stupid," Clay replied playfully, as though it were the simplest thing in the world, and then leaned forward and kissed Jason directly on the mouth.

Jason jerked back immediately, heart hammering in his chest. Grief and heartbreak rose up through the shock, threatening to pull him under. Clay had done so well through dinner, and it really felt like their Clay was coming back, slowly but surely. But this little display? This was two steps forward, three steps back.

He pushed Clay off of him, firm but gentle, and leapt up from the bed. Jason wanted to put as much space between him and Clay as possible.

"Clayton Michael Spenser," Jason said. "No. Whatever you're thinking about us, about what's going on ... you're wrong, okay? Completely wrong."

Clay narrowed his eyes; He looked pitiful sitting in the middle of the bed, butt-naked and eyes glassy with tears.

"Then teach me!" Clay shouted; It startled Jason. "I don't know what you want! You won't tell me, Jason! What're the rules? The expectations? What do you want from me?! I don't know! Do you want me to fuck me? Do you want me to clean something? I can't make you happy if I don't know! So please, just tell me so I can get on with it!"

Jason stood there, absolutely speechless. Trent's words kept roaring in his ears. Blackburn's too. They'd both been right, it seems. The man in the middle of Sonny's bed wasn't the Clay Spenser that they lost all those months ago, and this Clay ... This Clay was playing him like a goddamn piano. Jason inhaled through his nose, exhaled through his mouth, and tried not to take Clay's mountain of unspoken implications about him personally.

'He doesn't know any better,' Jason reminded himself. 'He doesn't know any better. He's terrified. He's just trying to survive.'

"Clay," Jason began. "I'm not going to hurt you."

Clay's lip wobbled. "I'm not asking you to hurt me. I'm asking you to love me. I can be good. I promise."

Jason voice cracked when he spoke; He struggled to keep the tears at bay. "That's not — that isn't love, what they did to you isn't love."

"So… you don't want to fuck me?"

"No, Clay. I don't want to fuck you. I want you to put your clothes on and go to sleep, okay? You're safe here. Me and Sonny are your brothers, okay? Just your brothers."

Clay sighed and turned his back to Jason and—

And Clay's back was a roadmap of thick, deep red scars. They criss-crossed across his upper shoulder-blades and led all the way down to his lower back, and to the very top of his ass. The overwhelming grief and shock threatening to make Jason vomit all over Sonny's ugly yellow carpet sharped into white hot, righteous fury. How dare those fucking animals. . .

Jason didn't dare leave Clay's room until Clay was redressed and under the covers, safe and sound.

"Don't worry," Jason said, pausing at the door. "We won't tell Sonny about this. Or anyone else. It didn't happen, okay?"

Clay nodded and mouthed, "Thank you."

Jason nodded and headed back to Sonny's couch. It was going to be a long, sleepless night.


End file.
